


The Conjurer

by cognomen



Series: small god of words [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, authority kink, police kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There is a painting Pazzi had once seen in Paris by Hieronymus Bosch - a conjurer showing tricks with cups and balls while amongst the crowd a pickpocket plied his trade. It is the truest form of the crime, though Pazzi has seen it in every permutation. The street criminals are too wise - or too leery - to attempt to part a chief inspector from his wallet. They are still, at least a little, properly afraid of him.</i> </p><p>-</p><p>In which there isn't quite a first meeting but a second - and this one far more significant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Conjurer

Florence is not all big crimes - the city was old enough to draw beggars and foolish tourists and buskers knew which corners were the best to sing at, to draw impermanent art upon, to juggle across. In the center of town, in the oldest parts that make your heart heavy with the weight and pressure of so much history, the crowds press close enough that pickpocketing is common.

There is a painting Pazzi had once seen in Paris by Hieronymus Bosch - a conjurer showing tricks with cups and balls while amongst the crowd a pickpocket plied his trade. It is the truest form of the crime, though Pazzi has seen it in every permutation. The street criminals are too wise - or too leery - to attempt to part a chief inspector from his wallet. They are still, at least a little, properly afraid of him.

Today he is not working, though he mixes onto the street for work, he is reaching for information. Pressing palms on a murdered vagrant that he saw more to than the dismissal of a drunken fall into the Arno - perhaps enough of a surprise if he could solve it that the papers would have to say something positive and attach his name.

These papers - papers that had vanished from the corpse before the polizia had been called to collect it - cost Pazzi a little in time and some in old favors. He had not needed to use these so often when first he had been promoted. In the haste and heat of il Mostro's work, he is glad he had thought to put favors away for later.

He has a very good memory, and with the diligence of a squirrel in long winter, he remembers where each favor is buried and the value of it. This cache, now dug up, he eases into an inner pocket of his suit coat, insulation for his heart.

He pauses to light a cigarette. The habit had come back from its ten year grave in these recent months - no one to complain about smoke or the smell of it - and Florence was a city of old smoke anyway. His eyes catch beyond the fire and end of his cigarette on a small crowd - Americans, by their fashion, crossing some point of travel off of a bucket list a movie has told them to have.

They have been drawn in by a conjurer, like Bosch's painting, but unlike the painting he is making tricks with his words rather than his hands. Pazzi clicks the lighter closed and looks for the accomplice working the crowd. He pulls smoke into his lungs, and lets the raised voice reach his ears.

"To what new realms, poor flutterer, wilt thou fly?"

It is somehow familiar, raised and strident. The voice, not the poetry; Pazzi is unfamiliar with English poetry and finds the Italian epics laborious and somber, dramatic past the point of his attention to bear.

But, the voice is a sound from his memory, stirring something hazy that only barely wallows up from the depths of his mind. A small time criminal, perhaps, or someone he had met once when he had still been invited to parties. 

He listens with half an ear to the poem, watching the crowd from across the narrow street as he smokes - Americans are touchy about proximity to cigarettes. The poem is something flighty and unusual in composition, but the contents are droll and heavy - the sort of morbid beauty that would captivate someone thinking a little of their own mortality. Pazzi has discovered that to a vacationer, this thought is nearly always in the back of their minds.

When the voice stops, the crowd draws in, perhaps to press money into a hat or to give tear-eyed accolades. Pazzi has not seen an accomplice working the crowd, but what he is looking for comes then, his eyes tracking fingers into a pocketbook that does not belong to them.

The poet is posing with a woman for a picture, a memory from Florence. The husband dutifully angles the cell-phone up. There is a marked familiarity to the slender, alluring form of the thief. Pazzi finally recognizes him, a hazy and warm memory of alcohol, proximity, proposition, and all of it flavored over like vodka on his tongue, a clean burning. He drops his cigarette on the pavement and springs, knifing through the street traffic. As the man takes a backup picture, Pazzi curls his fist into the shoulder of the poet's fine purple coat, bunching the thick wool into his grip tightly.

"Signore, Signora," he growls, without looking at the thief, playing policeman. "I think you've made a bigger contribution than intended."

He holds on, supposing this is the sort of thief who will not sacrifice a fine coat for an escape on a small offense. With his free hand, Pazzi displays his badge.

The woman clutches at her purse suddenly, a wedding ring flashing on he finger. She will not soon forget her allowance to temptation and the consequences. Pazzi's thoughts recall his own. He wonders, if he had been any weaker, if it would have resulted in more than a guilty morning after. 

"My friend," Pazzi intones smoothly, "has only suffered a momentary lapse in judgment."

He leads with a threat, a little shake of his fist in the fabric to shudder through the form, and leaving the pickpocket a place to make his apology and return the stolen property. He knows the man is smart enough to pick up his cue.

"I am very sorry ma'am," the thief adds, sheepish and the perfect amount of genuinely apologetic. "I had a very hard week but it's no excuse. Please forgive me."

He produces a long red wallet in a complex and feminine configuration from his sleeve, offering it back to the woman. She takes it guardedly, and her husband's hand settles protectively on the small of her back as she checks the contents.

"Thank you, officer," she says. American accent, American misunderstanding of his position. He does not think the thief would have readily listened to any poliziotti.

"It's all right," Pazzi assures her. "Don't let this shadow your visit to Florence."

The whole crowd has seen but Pazzi pays them no mind, instead dragging the younger man - not so much younger he wouldn't know better - away. The thief will not work this corner for some time at least. The locals will remember him to each other and he stands out. Tourists are usually adept at social cues given - if the Italians ignore him, everyone will pass by no matter how beautiful his poems.

He pulls the pickpocket away from public eyes without looking into the man's face. Pazzi already knows he will not arrest him. There is no point - small crime, slow trial, low bail - he and the tourists would all be back in their native countries by the time it came to court.

Selfishly, inexplicably, Pazzi does not think he yet wants to drive this daring poet out of Florence.

"Your words would draw bigger crowds in Rome," Pazzi says, as they reach an alleyway - small and private, lines hung high in the narrow space between balconies to dry clothes. "You could stand by the tombstones you robbed them from and give a voice to the dead beneath. And, lighter pockets to more tourists."

He gives the man a shake, warning, and then lets go of his coat.

"I'm not a grave robber," the man says, stepping away but not running. He pulls his coat straight and smooths his elegant hands over the rumpled fabric. "I only borrowed one line of Hadrian's."

Pazzi had not recognized it amongst any of the other lines. "Was that the only wallet you've taken today?"

"Am I under arrest _ispettore_?" The easy, ingratiating smile - as genuine and pleasure inducing as Pazzi remembers. "You could search me."

Pazzi thinks that the thief would not have to fake his enjoyment. There is a bright shine of strange, daring pleasure in his eyes. He already enjoys this pounding-heart flirtation with danger, the ice-shock rush of being caught. Pazzi has played into an illicit, unexpected fantasy, and the thief is confident he will play himself out of trouble.

He can, of course. Pazzi can already feel his resolve wavering with the bright, uncertain smile trained on him, the thief's eyes bluer than the sky overhead and without a hint of cloud. Earnest.

"This is a long way from chasing monsters," he continues, pink lips arching, a promise made with his tongue against his lower lip. 

"Your timing is to blame _amico mio_ ," Pazzi answers - _no, he has not forgotten either_. As if he could. "But you are not under arrest."

"I promise never to do it again," he says. Pazzi has never gotten his name - perhaps it does not matter. They were unlikely to have any relationship that required naming. Pazzi does not believe him. He does not suppose he is meant to.

"How is your wife?" the thief asks, with a glance at Pazzi's wedding ring, worn from habit. It is a size bigger than when he had purchased it. 

"We aren't seeing eye to eye," Pazzi admits, and though it is instinctive and the taste is bitter, he knows why: hope. It washes acidically against his heart to want this way, to be tempted to use his power for _this_ kind of opportunity.

But the light of playful interest wakes, sharp and bright-shining, the pickpocket's smile going wider and keener like a honed blade.

"How is _yours_ " Pazzi returns, playing the game. It is a low thrill, vicarious, playing at _gendarme et voleur_ , that he thinks his counterpart feels more acutely, a childish game elevated to a sexual pleasure. 

"Not waiting for me in my hotel room, _ispettore_ ," he promises.

"Your name at least," Pazzi demands then, feeling foolish - the thief will lie to him, and that's alright. It will be a name he can append to the memory, true enough to serve when he had to call it up again. 

"Anthony," he says, the first name only. It is enough. Pazzi notes the foreign form to himself - he will make an effort to remember the 'h'.

"Well," Pazzi says, with a great effort of willpower. "You are free to go. Stick to poetry, Anthony, and not picking pockets."

"Won't you accept my thanks, Ispetorre Pazzi? I have nowhere pressing to be."

It is permission - and also, Pazzi reads the words behind the words - Anthony does have nowhere to go. It is not Pazzi's problem, not like the stirring in his cock that pulls blood from his thoughts and leaves his mouth dry and ready. He does not say anything - does not trust his voice even for a command to follow and turns away. In his earliest days as a poliziotti, he had encountered many such trysts in urgent public. He knows the likely places.

In three blocks there is a public toilet. It asks Є .60 and promises 15 minutes of a locked door. If Anthony is not following, he can wash his hands and be done, but the door does not immediately close behind Pazzi, the delay long enough to admit Anthony before the lights flicker on and the sunlight cuts out.

There is no hesitation and no foreplay. Anthony's arms reach around Pazzi's middle, hands unerringly seizing for the button on Pazzi's slacks. He wrenches it open, mouth wide against the back of Pazzi's neck, aggressively sexual.

"I woke up in one of these once, in the small hours of morning," Anthony recalls in a low tone, telling a story he finds amusing and talking to cover over the sounds of harsh breathing, to spill vibration from his chest against Pazzi's shoulders. "It was the first time I'd ever seen a Turkish toilet."

Pazzi's response - if it was ever meant to be sensible - is reduced to a grunt as Anthony yanks open his zipper, pushing Pazzi's slacks halfway down his hips to leave enough room to get his hands inside..

There is an intake of breath at what he finds, Pazzi's cock nearly jumping into the curl of Anthony's skilled fingers, loose to let his erection grow between them. He gives a couple of strokes, purring an approval as Pazzi tries to hold his breath and keep his feet. He holds out, one hand around Anthony's flexing wrist and the other cast out to steady himself against the cold stone wall. 

He is surprised - faintly, through the fog of pleasure - at the lack of hesitation when Anthony shoves him back against the wall and dirties the knees of his designer jeans on the bathroom floor. He leads with his tongue in long, broad licks without a hint of hesitation - even of the sort that might be prudent when first fellating a stranger. He is getting the measure of Pazzi's girth, weighing him on the rough velvet of his tongue, and Pazzi lets his mind drift, one hand on the cold grounding of the wall behind him and the other fisting in the short, styled length of Anthony's hair. 

His fingers break up the stiffness of gel through the strands, skillfully applied, crimping in close to the warm scalp and holding. Anthony makes art of the artless, sometimes stretching his jaw wide over Pazzi's cock, but mostly making a work with his clever tongue in composing sensation on Pazzi's cock; breaths for pause on wet skin nearly as intense as touch.

For the time it's been since anyone has touched him, Pazzi thinks he does not embarrass himself. Anthony finishes him with a steady, jerking grip and encouraging noises as Pazzi's release jets out of him and onto the dirty tile floor. Pazzi catches his breath slowly, eyes closed, without releasing his fingers from Anthony's hair. He does not trust him not to vanish, even as he pulls his thoughts back from all points of the compass.

He pulls Anthony up, pulls their bodies together - feeling soft and clumsy in comparison to the slim confidence. He knows well enough, however out of practice he may be, where to get his hands. How rough to be as he strokes through denim to get Anthony gasping open mouthed into Pazzi's shirt at the lapels. It is the work of a few moments, of firm touches, until the scent and wet of release seeps hot and slow against Pazzi's palm.

It is unkind, but the mark will last, even as they draw apart. Pazzi can zip, wash his hands, and Anthony can only pant and look at the spreading dark spot over his groin in breathless dismay.

"What was it you said about having no place to go?" Pazzi asks him, drying his hands on cheap paper towels.

It is a dirty trick, but one of the many in a game of dirty tricks, and revenge might prove a better pass time than stealing.

-


End file.
